The Dance of the Moth
by CSI Clue
Summary: The events at the Reichenbach peace summit bring Genevieve St. James to the continent. *it helps to have read my story Genevieve before reading this one. Spoilers for SH:A game of Shadows
1. Chapter 1

The Dance of the Moth

The telegram was typical of him; terse and succinct, with no excessive verbiage, no terms of salutation. The delivery lad took her tip and touched his cap before darting away in the twilight, leaving her to re-read the scant three lines, commit them to memory, and carry the paper over to the gas lamp over the counter. She touched a corner of the paper to it and let it burn away as she stepped back to the door, dropping the ashes into the gutter and grinding them up with a boot heel.

She was frightened. Oh she'd always known Holmes had enemies. No one in his profession succeeded without creating a few, but she'd never worried before about whether or not he would triumph over them. Now though, this mathematics professor loomed in her mind, and as she began to close the bookstore she thought back to what she knew of the man, of what Holmes had confided in her of him.

"_He is a trap door spider, waiting for his prey instead of seeking it. A shark in command of an army of remoras, capable of striking at any point on the globe. The mind that can keep track of all commerce of crime is formidable, Genevieve, and very nearly equal to my own capacities." _

"_A maths professor? I doubt he's ever been in a brawl, or handled any b-blade more dangerous than a cigar cutter."_

"_You underestimate him. No, I tell you this man—James Moriarity—is more than dangerous, my dear. He is deadly, and would think no more about snuffing out your life than I would my pipe."_

She'd nodded, and taken Holmes' word for it, but hadn't given the matter much thought since that exchange nearly five months ago. Since then she'd seen little enough of Holmes, and supposed that he was occupied with his own affairs.

Affairs.

Genevieve sighed. There had been a notice in the Arts section of the paper that Miss Irene Adler was currently starring in some operetta at the Lyceum, and she assumed that Holmes had renewed his connection to the American songbird although she had no certainty of it. Miss Adler _was_ beautiful; all of London remarked on it, and there were few men who wouldn't want to pass the time with her, Genevieve knew.

And it wasn't as if she herself and Holmes had any claim on each other, not formally. They met every fortnight or so, as discreetly as possible, and during those times Genevieve never knew quite what to expect. Some nights she felt she was merely standing in for Doctor Watson as a sounding board while Holmes rambled on late into the night on some theory or hypothesis about crime. Some nights he needed access to the bookstore and to some of the more occult and exotic tomes she kept for him there.

And_ some _nights, yes, well some nights they simply had no time for words. Those were the nights when Genevieve felt more than just an exasperated fondness for the dark-eyed genius who was apt to show up dressed at a priest or a costermonger before bustling her off to some little hotel on the outskirts of the city to make love until the early hours of the morning. He'd taught her a great deal about those intimate joys, and Genevieve felt that whatever his faults and peculiarities, Holmes carried a sweet and private bond to her.

Then she'd seen the notice in the paper about Miss Adler missing her performances two weeks ago, followed a few days later by a police report of a well-dressed woman's corpse being fished out of the Thames. Genevieve knew the two events occurring so closely together was no coincidence, and while she longed to send Holmes a note, she knew better than to do so. Instead, she began to read the papers religiously, including the ones from the continent.

There had been bombings and deaths world-wide, and then in a small notice at the bottom of one of the French papers, mention of a peace summit to be held in Switzerland. Among the listed names, that of the mathematics professor made her gasp. She searched the English papers for any similar notice, but only found a vague story that mentioned no-one by name other than the Prime Minister.

Genevieve made it a point to stop in at Baker Street, ostensibly to hand-deliver a parcel of books ordered by Mr. Holmes. In the course of chatting with Mrs. Hudson over tea, she learned the good woman was enjoying an extended period of peace 'now that Mr. Holmes was off in Paris or some such place.' She'd visited as long as was polite, but once Genevieve left Baker Street, she returned to the bookstore and began to pack.

It was fear that drove her to do it. Fear and something else within her chest, a something she didn't dare examine too closely. Paris was close to Switzerland, and Genevieve had no doubt that whatever Holmes was involved in would require her eventually. Now she had a message, three sentences that played over in her thoughts in Holmes' low and imperative voice.

_White queen withdraws. Sacrifice to mate. CCS-221._

Typical gesture, she thought. Holmes gave the impression that he thought highly of himself, but those who knew him best understood that he had absolutely_ no_ qualms about leaping into danger for the sake of those he held dear. Genevieve appreciated his gallantry even as she despaired of his common sense, and understood precisely what he was telling her in his brief missive.

She understood, and was fully prepared to ignore his directive.

Certainly it was flattering to be considered the most valuable piece on the board, but Genevieve had no intention of going into hiding, _or_ departing for any of the destinations she and Holmes had once discussed as hypothetical points of interest.

Genevieve pulled out her trunk and began to pluck blouses and skirts from the dresser drawers, folding them swiftly and dropping them into the depths of the chest. She collected her few pieces of good jewelry and accessories, adding them while she mentally composed what she would say to her uncle and the bank officials in charge of her accounts. Certainly the latter would keep tabs on the former, and her uncle would be delighted to have the shop to himself for a month or two. He'd been urging her to take a holiday for years now, a gesture that was meant kindly, but carried under it a desire to be rid of her for a while.

She understood; living under a spinster's charity was hard on the man's dignity, and although they loved each other as only family could, Genevieve and her uncle both appreciated time apart. This unexpected trip would be a gift to her uncle, one that he wouldn't question too closely.

The one last loose end was to stop at Charing Cross Station, and Genevieve tried to brace herself for whatever might be there. Knowing Holmes, it could be . . . anything, which in his case covered a lot of territory, some of it quite exotic. The thought made Genevieve shiver a bit, and she added another shawl to her trunk.

Locker 221 at Charing Cross was one of the smaller ones, waist-level, just off the end of a long row. Genevieve noted that it was slightly dented and that the lock was familiar to her; Holmes had taught her to pick that very type. Shaking her head at his prescient cunning, Genevieve made her way to it, pulling a pin from her lapel.

It took several tries, but eventually Genevieve felt the tumblers shift and tugged the door open. She peered inside, and seeing nothing, slipped a hand in, gently feeling around in the locker space, finally touching a packet that seemed to have been pasted to the top of the inside. Genevieve pried it off, tucked it away and left the bank of lockers, taking care to walk slowly, and checking in the reflection of nearby windows to see if she was being followed. Nothing undue appeared to her, and after purchasing a ticket to Dover, she settled into an empty second-class carriage to read.

The packet was sealed with green-grey wax, no crest on it. From the scent on the paper, Holmes had been smoking his pipe when he'd put it together, and Genevieve smiled at the thought. She opened the flap and pulled the folded paper within out.

Along with it came a small key. Curious, she studied it, realizing with surprise that it was sterling silver, with a tag dangling from the eye. A vault key. Genevieve impatiently tucked it back into the packet, unfolded the paper and began to read.

_Genevieve,_

_If you are reading this, then it is very likely that I have died or will die shortly. You have always understood that my occupation is not without its hazards, and despite Watson's support and skill, I am not superhuman. Do not waste time mourning; suffice to know that I strove to see justice done, and that to die for that cause has been worth it._

_I am loathe to pass, however, without expressing to you some indication of my own personal feelings regard for you and for our intimate association of this past year. Throughout my life I have been accused of being self-centered and anti-social by a great many people; judged to be immune to the tender considerations of emotional bonds. It's true that I have kept myself from developing attachments—emotions hamper logic, and to be a detective, one must work without sentiment clouding judgment. _

_And yet there are a handful of people to whom I find myself both indebted to, and overtly fond of. Watson of course is one: there are few men the world over of his caliber and compassion. Too, I hold my brother in high, if exasperated regard, if only for his capacity to keep me to my sharpest edge. And while there have been a few others who have managed to circumvent my defenses over the years foremost now there is you, Genevieve._

_I have never been a man given to flowery words or one comfortable with declarations of passion, so simply allow me to state that my days and nights with you have always brought me great joy, and that had our circumstances been different, I would have pursued our relationship more fully and formally. I suppose this assertion comes too late to provide you with much consolation, but rest assured that it is sincere and deeply felt. _

_There are events and decisions in the course of my life I might have changed if given the chance, but my intimate union with you is one that I have never regretted and will cherish always._

_Along with this note, you will find a small key: present it to the bank manager Charles Wilmington in Threadneedle Street and you will have no trouble accessing my vault there. The contents are yours, along with the Stradivarius._

_Thank you, Genevieve, for everything._

_S. H._

She stared at the note, the words going out of focus as the train rattled on, and after a while, Genevieve felt the hard pressure of a sob rising up in her throat. She swallowed it down again, determined not to give in to the shock and despair, but it was difficult. Carefully she refolded the letter and tucked it away deep into her reticule, then forced herself to gaze out the window towards the passing scenery.

Ridiculous. The very idea that Holmes was dead seemed utter nonsense. The man had more lives than a cat, and an uncanny knack for survival despite falls, fire and floods. If even half the stories he'd told her were true, then this letter was simply a precaution, a pre-emptive plan prematurely delivered.

A mistake.

It had to be.

For a long time she sat there, lost in thought, and Genevieve nearly missed the porter's soft announcement that they'd arrived at the ferry docks. When he opened the door for her, however, she was ready, and tipped him nicely for carrying her trunk into the offices. There, it was a simple matter to book passage to Calais. She had enough time to stop in at the money exchange offices along the wharf as well, turning her pounds into francs before boarding the _Nightingale_, one of the slower vessels.

Later that evening as the ship surged across the channel, Genevieve stretched out in her bunk and closed her wet eyes. She'd forced herself to eat, and now was applying the same discipline to resting. It was logical, really—there was nothing further she could do at the moment, and it might be the last chance for sleep.

She did sleep, fitfully, and when she did, Genevieve found herself caught up in anxious dreams with nebulous monsters lurking in the corners of her mind. By the time the _Nightingale_ put into Calais the next morning, Genevieve had begun to form a plan, jotting a few ideas on an old receipt as she stood at the rail.

Calais was chilly, with a low fog hanging on the edge of the horizon. Small white gulls drifted through the mist, and Genevieve watched them circle, looking for handouts as the crew began to lower the gangplank to the wharf. She had an excellent command of French, and knew of two booksellers in the city, if only by correspondence—that was where to start. Drawing in a deep breath, Genevieve bolstered her courage and descended the gangplank, flanking a group of businessmen closely enough to hear them discussing the merits of certain hotels. The agreed-upon favorite seemed to be the Hotel Meurice, and with that in mind, Genevieve arranged for a coach to take her and her trunk there.

The quiet little concierge of Le Meurice was most accommodating. He not only secured her a lovely room with a connected bath, but also—for a reasonable tip—brought her several newspapers, and a cart with tea, English style. Genevieve managed a light breakfast before writing notes to her associates, announcing her intention to call on them in the afternoon. LaValle took the notes for delivery, and Genevieve took a bath, washing off the salt of the Channel and trying to relax.

Scanning the papers gave her a lot of superfluous information about the current events and uneasy political climes of the continent. Both the Strasbourg and Cromwell & Griffin bombings were still very much topics of interest, and Genevieve shuddered. She had nearly finished Le Monde when a small article in the Society pages mentioned that the Prime Minister of England was due to arrive in Paris within two days and would be attending the premiere of _Don Giovanni_. Genevieve tucked this piece of information away thoughtfully, and dressed.


	2. Chapter 2

Le Corbeau was a cramped little store squeezed along one of the side streets of Calais; nevertheless Genevieve felt at home among the musty scents of paper and leather. The proprietor, Monsieur Lavelle, greeted her effusively, rushing to grip both of her hands and shake them, babbling all the while in delight.

"Mademoiselle! Such a joy to finally meet you, such a pleasure to see you in person!" he boomed, his voice deep and nasally. Genevieve smiled back, feeling her own sense of pleasure. Alphonse Lavelle had always been a joy to correspond and work with over the years, and their professional connection had developed into a shy friendship nurtured by a mutual love of good literature and good humor. Genevieve knew a great deal about her friend from his letters, and meeting him in person now reconfirmed her high opinion of him.

"The joy is all mine, Monsieur Lavelle, I assure you," she replied. The brush of a cat's weight against one ankle made her smile. "I trust Louise and her kittens are well?"

"They are costing me a fortune in sardines, but they look at me with those sad eyes, and I cannot find it in my heart to deny them," Alphonse Lavelle laughed, his broad belly shaking. "Little beggars. Come, come—I know you English love tea, so let us partake and then you may tell me what finally brings you to La Belle France, eh?"

This was agreeable to Genevieve, and moments later they were seated at a charming little table off to one side of the counter of La Corbeau. Alphonse bustled around, bringing the tea and a lovely plate of Madeleines before settling his bulk down in the chair on the other side of his guest. Immediately a grey cat leapt into his lap and he petted her indulgently.

"Ah Louise, how demanding you are," he sighed, and looked up at Genevieve, smiling. "Truly a tyrant in fur."

"She simply knows w-what is to her advantage," Genevieve replied, and poured the tea. "As do most females. It is b-bred in our bones."

"Of that I have no doubt. Now tell me, Mademoiselle Genevieve, why have you decided to come to the Continent? From our last letters, I was under the impression that you would not be making a trip for half a year at least, and certainly not alone."

Genevieve paused, considering best how to reply, and opted for guarded honesty. "That was my plan, Monsieur Alphonse, b-but circumstances have changed. A very dear friend of m-mine is in trouble, and I need to find him before matters b-become worse."

Alphonse shot her a keen look, his eyes bright and serious at the some time. "Ahh, une affaire du coeur!"

Genevieve fought a blush. "M-more like preventing a fool from rushing in where angels fear to tread, I'm afraid."

Alphonse nodded sagely, one corner of his mouth still curling up under his glossy mustache. "Eh bien. I hope the man in question is a gentleman, and worthy of your concerns then. If not, I would be glad to set him straight."

This gallantry touched Genevieve, even though she was fully aware that Holmes could incapacitate Monsieur Alphonse within seconds of a clash and with minimum effort at that. "That's exceedingly k-kind of you, mon cher ami, and I am deeply touched by your chivalry. He _is_ a gentleman; please rest assured on that quarter. My concern lies in the fact that w-while his intentions are noble, his . . . impulsive nature c-can get him into trouble. S-serious trouble."

Alphonse frowned, still petting Louise, who was purring loudly now. "Is he a—how do you say it? Law-breaker?"

"M-more of a rule-breaker," Genevieve corrected ruefully. "I believe he is g-going to Switzerland."

At this, Alphonse's eyebrows went up. "Why?"

"That," Genevieve sighed, "is a v-very good question. I have a theory, but for the moment there is no proof. S-suffice it to say that it is probably r-related to the peace summit there. "

It was funny to see the eyebrows go down. "He is not an _anarchist_, is he? Oh Mademoiselle, please tell me you are not involved with a madman!"

"Of course not!" Genevieve lied sweetly. She knew Holmes was no anarchist, but the issue of his sanity was still debatable as far as she was concerned. "His politics are n-neutral. I feel he is going there to c-confront an enemy."

"Ahhhh," Alphonse replied, seemingly relieved. "An affair of honor then; much better. I believe the entire point of the summit is to deal with enemies, is it not?"

"On a n-national level, not a personal one," Genevieve reminded him. "I have no d-desire to see him start an international incident."

Alphonse nodded. "Good point, mon amie; all the attendees are bound to be touchy, given all the recent developments. So the question becomes, 'what may I do to assist you,' eh? The precise location for the summit has not been announced yet, but all of the trains run through Geneva, so that must be our first destination."

"_Our_ destination?" Startled, Genevieve blinked, but Alphonse gave her a quiet nod, his gaze on the cat in his lap.

"Genevieve, allow me to speak frankly. You cannot travel across the continent unescorted. You are beautiful woman and this is a time of unrest. I am not a brave man, but I would be worse than a coward to send you off alone to countries you have never visited before."

"T-that's very generous of you, Monsieur Alphonse," Genevieve began, thinking furiously of how to decline his offer and caught off-guard on being considered beautiful. Before she could continue, though, he broke in again.

"—I speak German, I have experience with rail travel and you know my sister Delphine will keep an eye on the business here while we are gone. I am as you know . . . discreet," he admittedly shyly, "and therefore not anyone for your . . . friend to be jealous of."

Genevieve reached over and laid a hand on Alphonse's wrist, patting it. "Mon cher ami, I am deeply touched by your kind and wise offer, but I have no idea what sort of situation I am going into. I'm afraid it will be dangerous."

He paled a little, but lifted his chin. "Nevertheless, I insist on making sure you arrive safely, Mademoiselle. Given the climate of the times, it is far better to travel in numbers. Besides," Alphonse added with a smile, "It will give an excellent opportunity to bring back some chocolates for Delphine and Henri."

Genevieve considered his words, and realized that he was right; it would be far safer for her to travel with a companion. A woman traveling alone was far more likely to be preyed upon than one in the company of a man, and Alphonse was certainly trustworthy. She gave him a slight nod. "Agreed. Your insights are true, and I will be indebted to you for this, Alphonse. How soon can we leave?"

"By tomorrow evening at the earliest," He replied promptly. "If I may impose on you to watch my shop today while I make arrangements, and _if_ Delphine is willing to be bribed with confections, then we can be on our way to Paris by tomorrow evening."

Genevieve sighed; she'd hoped to get underway sooner, but understood the necessary delay. A kitten leaped up on the table and looked at her inquiringly. She laughed and reached to pet him. "Very well. I have a few errands to do myself while here in Calais, so tomorrow it shall be. And thank you, mon ami—you are very kind."

-oo00oo-

When they reached Paris two days later, it was grey, and cold.

Genevieve looked out the dining room window of her small hotel and thought back to the last time she'd been with Holmes. Nearly six weeks earlier, she recalled. They'd had a rendezvous at a busy place on the edge of St. John's Wood, large old inn with a courtyard, and he'd surprised her by literally popping out of the woodwork. When Holmes had showed her the cunning outfit that allowed him to fade into the background of the room, Genevieve had marveled at it even as she'd hidden a laugh. It was not much more than an unmentionable suit, the front of which had been carefully painted to match the pattern of the inn's walls.

Snug and a bit silly, really.

The fact that Holmes had taken the time to do such intricate work told her that he was moving upwards on a manic curve, and that did not bode well at all. Genevieve knew full well that Holmes' personality moved from melancholy to frenzy and back again at uneven intervals, and that when caught up in a challenge, he tended to put his formidable drive into several lines of interest all at the same time.

Fortunately, one of those pre-occupations was intimate relations, and she knew that it was certainly better for him than drinking chemicals and taking on all challengers at fisticuffs. For all his intensity, Holmes was a tender and generous lover. After he'd modeled the suit, she'd pounced on him and peeled him out of it, kissing and nipping him as she'd done so.

Holmes was unusual that way; for a man so forthright and direct about most matters in his life, he preferred to be subject to direction when it came to love-making. It had taken Genevieve a while to perceive that, but once she had, matters between them had gained a ferociously sweet and intimate passion. Holmes loved best when seduced, and Genevieve was more than willing to accommodate that predilection.

They'd frolicked—a silly word, but one oh so appropriate at the time—and finally managed to drop off to sleep, entwined and exhausted, at about two in the morning. Genevieve recalled stroking his hair and feeling his warm breath against the side of her throat. The memory sent a deep pang through her, and she bit her lip firmly to fight back tears.

He HAD to be alive, the foolish bastard. That was all there was to it.

Alphonse arrived at her table on the heels of the waiter, both of them bringing her items of interest and jarring her out of her reverie. The waiter set down toast, tea, and jam while Alphonse handed her a re-folded newspaper and tapped an article down near the bottom of an inside page.

"Bon matin. I trust you slept well? There, this article should prove most interesting," he began, words in a rush as he settled into the chair opposite her. To the waiter he murmured a request for croissants.

"I d-did," Genevieve agreed, amused at her companion's energy. Clearly Alphonse Lavelle was one of those persons who thrived in the morning, and at the moment seemed to throw off sparks. "And youself?"

"Passably, passably," he replied with a languid wave of his hand. "There is more traffic here than in Calais, so it took a while to drift off. Let me pour while you peruse that article, eh?"

As he did so, Genevieve read, and realized that the location of the summit was now in print: Meiringen. When she looked up at Alphonse, he was smug.

"I have a map," he told her, eyes twinkling. "Let us see how far it is."

Depressingly far, Genevieve realized. Traveling to Geneva would take at _least_ three days, and from there, getting to the inner part of the country could take even longer than that. She began to consider her situation with a little more pragmatism.

"It s-says here that the conference will take place in a fortnight," she murmured to Alphonse, whose attention was now on the croissants and the young waiter who had brought them. Guiltily he looked up as she spoke.

"Not much time then," he pointed out. "I can purchase the tickets for Paris to Geneva this afternoon, and by tomorrow we can be on our way. That would leave us today and tonight to enjoy what we can of Paris." Alphonse' tone was so wistful that Genevieve found it impossible to refuse is unspoken question.

"If we can leave n-no earlier, then it would be wise to enjoy the day," she agreed. "Certainly I would love to see the s-stalls of the Bouquinistes."

"As would I," Alphonse agreed. "If only to acquire something to read on the trip!"

-oo00oo-

The day proved to be productive, even though Genevieve longed to be moving on. Alphonse kept her distracted in the best sort of way, and the afternoon's leisurely walk along the bookseller's stalls held a sweet charm she couldn't deny. So many volumes, so much knowledge! Genevieve bought books and arranged to have a few crates shipped back to England, proud to have found several items her uncle would appreciate. She and Alphonse took lunch at one of the charming little cafes overlooking the Seine, and over a glass of wine she told him a bit about Holmes and his interests.

Alphonse was amused. "So he detects, like Poe's creation? Pulling clues together and weaving a thread of logic through trifles? How extraordinaire!"

"It's a gift, albeit w-with a heavy price at times," Genevieve replied. "No-one else does it as w-well as he."

"Why is he not with the authorities? A man of his talent would be invaluable to any gendarmerie or police force."

"He would s-say that he has no interest, but I s-suspect part of the truth is none w-would put up with him," Genevieve replied gently. "He can be . . . . Cantankerous."

This made Alphonse laugh, and his merriment was enough to make the pigeons on the sidewalk around them scurry away in alarm. Genevieve smiled, feeling a moment of lightness. She knew better than to share_ too_ much, but she knew well that it would be better if Alphonse were prepared for Holmes.

Later that evening, as they stood in the foyer of the hotel, debating on where to dine, the distant rumble of an explosion made the chandeliers shake. Alarmed, Genevieve looked around; Alphonse crouched next to the concierge's desk, pulling her down with him. Voices outside grew louder and finally someone rushed into the lobby.

"Une bombe! Un bombardement à travers l'opéra!" he cried, pointing to the north.

"Anarchists!" Alphonse murmured. "They have struck here too!"

Genevieve shook her head. "Somehow, I don't think so. Come, I think we need to leave, mon ami."


	3. Chapter 3

The trip from Paris to Geneva took five days. Five long and sometimes harrowing days. Genevieve was glad she'd packed her letters of credit, and although money was not an issue, comfort was. The trains jostled her, rattled her and didn't allow her to sleep very well despite the upholstery and amenities.

Thankfully Alphonse made the traveling a bit easier. He was proving to be a good companion; pleasant and full of interesting stories. Early on they'd begun calling each other 'cousin' as camouflage, and after a while it seemed a perfectly natural form of address between them, arousing neither suspicion nor interest from anyone else.

The countryside was pretty enough, but Genevieve was far more interested in her fellow passengers, and soon realized that many of the train employees were tense. She supposed the bombings and border security were the cause of that, and did her best not to demand too much of the porters. On the third day, however, she had an encounter that unsettled her.

She was in the dining car, alone for lunch. Alphonse had pleaded a headache and needed to sleep; Genevieve urged him to do so, and made her way to the car alone. The porter seated her at her usual table, inquiring about her cousin. She explained the situation and gave her order, looking around at the other passengers. Several were new, recent additions from the last stop near the German border. As Genevieve looked around, she felt an unpleasant shiver rush up her spine, and turned to find a man at the table across the aisle staring at her, thin mouth smiling fractionally.

He was gaunt, with bruises along one cheek and a bristly ginger beard that gave him a slightly sinister cast. Genevieve forced herself to look him in the eyes, and found them to be an icy blue. The man held her gaze for a long moment, and then nodded slowly, as if remembering social niceties at the last minute. She watched as he sawed into a rare slice of roast beef, cutting it with deliberation.

Genevieve forced herself not to react, and turned back to the bisque the waiter set in front of her. She had no appetite now, but made herself down a few spoonfuls, and tried to relax. The man had meant no harm, surely; poor manners, but he'd said nothing, done nothing overtly offensive. Nevertheless Genevieve sensed a degree of danger radiating from the quiet figure, and resolved to avoid him for the rest of the trip.

She didn't share her feelings with Alphonse; there was little he could do, and in truth it was simply a feeling. Genevieve knew full well that women gave more credence to their inner voice than men did, and that to mention it always opened the potential to be mocked.

She'd learned _that_ from bitter experience with her uncle.

At dinner, Alphonse joined her, and this time the stranger was seated one table behind him. Genevieve had trouble avoiding the man's intense gaze whenever it drifted her way, which was often. He wasn't flirting, or even leering, both of which Genevieve would have recognized. No, he was watching her as if she was . . . prey. As if he was considering her through a rifle scope. The sensation was unnerving, and for the life of her Genevieve couldn't figure out why this stranger was doing this.

After the better part of the meal had passed, she realized that she wasn't alone; the man was looking at other women the same way. He eyed the little blonde mother of two one table over with the same hunter's intensity, and not even the elderly matron who entered late was spared that coldly assessing gaze.

Genevieve decided he must have some sort of quietly aggressive nature. She'd read through several recently published German books that described both mind and psyche, and the stranger seemed to personify one of the more dangerous types labeled by the authors.

Alphonse seemed to sense her unease, and leaned forward to whisper. "Are you all right mon amie?"

"Yes, I'm simply t-tired of travel," she told him gently. "Nice as the accommodations are, they're not easy on the d-digestion."

Alphonse nodded. "Oui, it's difficult at times, I agree. By great fortune though, we do not have much further to go; I heard one of the conductors mention that we will reach Geneva by tomorrow morning."

This was good news, and Genevieve brightened. "That's wonderful!"

"Indeed. I have spoken to a few of our fellow passengers and procured a list of hotels and inns," Alphonse told her. "Geneva should be no problem, but matters may be more difficult in Meiringen."

Genevieve sighed. "We w-will do what we can. Thank you so much for all y-your help, Alphonse."

-oo00oo-

The little yellow paper was waiting for them at the Meiringen station. Alphonse took it, his face pale as the telegram messenger stood waiting for a reply. He unfolded it and paled, passing the page wordlessly to Genevieve, who scanned it and inhaled a quick breath.

"You must return," she told him firmly. _"Now._"

"Poor Delphine!" Alphonse moaned. "Disastrous enough to break one leg, but both!"

Genevieve helped him compose a quick reply, and then steered Alphonse to the ticket office. In halting German she purchased a return fare to Paris as she soothingly rubbed her friend's back. Alphonse roused himself enough to accept the tickets, and separate his luggage from hers, babbling all the while. " . . . I have that list of hostels and hotels right here, and according to the porter there's a restaurant in the town square that's not too expensive . . ."

"I'll manage, Alphonse, I shall. In the m-meantime, you must return to Calais w-without delay; your sister needs you."

Alphonse nodded, his face a study in misery. "I feel I have failed you," he confessed. "All this travel and no opportunity to find your gentleman friend! What a waste of a trip!"

"Nonsense," Genevieve responded stoutly. "You escorted m-me here and k-kept my spirits up. I'm grateful for everything, m-mon ami."

He gave her a tired smile and a hug, then pulled back and handed Genevieve some papers. "Here—the lists of places, the map, and the addresses of a few bookstores here in town. It's not much, but it should help a bit. Also, a loan—" and here he pressed a thick billfold into Genevieve's hand, "Use what you need and you may repay me later. I insist," Alphonse cut off her protest with a stern smile. "You are in a strange country, and every resource is precious."

Genevieve felt her eyes water. "Very well, and thank you, Alphonse, for your trust in me. I will write you as soon as possible."

They said their goodbyes before he boarded the return train, and Genevieve watched it chug out of sight for the Geneva station, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. She was thousands of miles from home with no sure lead on Holmes, and no guarantee he would be glad to see her _should_ she find him.

For a long moment, she let herself feel scared, tired, and lonely. Then Genevieve St. James lifted her chin.

"_When_ I f-find him," she told herself firmly, and waved to a porter to assist her with her trunk.

-oo00oo-

Meiringen was a small town, certainly smaller than London or Paris, and within two days, Genevieve had explored most of it by foot or by hansom. She had stopped in at the booksellers (both of whom turned out to be charming and very helpful) had visited the local sites and even taken a few hours to visit the spa, renowned for spring water cures. If she hadn't been on a quest, she might have enjoyed herself.

As it was, Genevieve knew that the Peace Summit would open at the end of the week, beginning with an official Ball at the Reichenbach Castle. Currently Meiringen was filled with foreign visitors and their retinues; most of them talked of little else. She learned of the exclusive guest list and the security surrounding the entire affair. Genevieve listened carefully and made mental notes, wondering if Holmes would try to bluff his way in, or perhaps disguise himself.

She hoped he wouldn't do the latter; despite his enthusiasm for costumes, Holmes wasn't nearly as clever with them as he _thought_ he was. A small blind spot in the man, this vanity for a mediocre skill. Genevieve tried not to laugh at the memory of some of his unconvincing disguises, and a moment later the recollection was swept away by a sigh.

She missed him dreadfully.

By Thursday Genevieve had staked out a position at a café near the railway station, ostensibly to read, but in truth she was keeping an eye on the incoming trains, hoping to spot either Holmes or Watson arriving in Meiringen. It was a chilly day, and Genevieve was glad of her fur shawl as well as the pots of hot tea the waiters kept bringing to her. The little guidebook to Meiringen sat on her table, well-thumbed by this time, along with her journal and a few pencils. The sun was out, but there were clouds hovering over the craggy mountains, and when Genevieve glanced around, she spotted a familiar figure across the street, lounging inside one of the little businesses there. A lean ginger-haired figure who seemed to be watching the train station as well.

She fought a flinch. Whoever the man was, that faint sense of menace still lingered in his wake even at a distance. Genevieve wondered if he was after Holmes. It was possible, she knew—Holmes tended to make enemies, and any number of them might be coming to this summit besides Moriarity. Not a cheery thought at all.

Genevieve watched the ginger-haired man. He checked his watch periodically, fishing it out of his vest pocket, and stood quietly, no nervousness, no fidgeting. When the long whistle of the incoming train cut through the air, she saw him relax a bit and step to the curb, preparing to walk toward the main doors of the station. Unexpectedly though, he suddenly gazed in her direction and she felt a surge of panic when those cold blue eyes locked with hers.

A tall cab passed between them on the street, breaking the contact, and Genevieve quickly looked down, aware that her heart was racing now, quick with fearful trepidation. Out of the corner of her gaze she noted that the ginger-haired man was heading off, giving her no further consideration. He unnerved her, and she wished she could order something stronger than tea to settle her wits. Still, it wouldn't do to draw attention to herself, so Genevieve forced herself to relax and sip more of the hot Darjeeling.

She let her gaze follow the man, and noted he didn't go for the main doors of the station. Instead, he went off to a door marked 'private', and as he did so, someone stepped out to greet him.

Genevieve stared. The new man was stocky, and red-haired as well, with a heavier beard and impeccable sense of dress. She'd seen his features only once before-in a tintype pinned to the wall of 221 B Baker Street—but even at this distance he was unmistakable.

Professor James Moriarity.

Genevieve rose and began to pick up her things from the table, feeling a fresh rush of anxiety as she realized the danger had just doubled, and Holmes was still nowhere to be found. She left the café and strode back towards her hotel, chiding herself for coming to Switzerland and hoping against hope to find her lover before he did something rash.


	4. Chapter 4

The next two days were a nightmare. Worse than a nightmare, Genevieve felt, because at least one might wake up from sleep-induced horrors, whereas in reality she had no respite from the events that had transpired at Reichenbach Castle.

She had tried to watch for Holmes along the road leading up to the castle, but most of the carriages were closed, and nightfall didn't help matters either. Unfortunately Genevieve had spotted Moriarity, arriving in a handsome sleigh, and had hid from sight until he passed. The night was too cold for her to stay out any longer, particularly along the unlit streets, so she retired to her hotel room for a few hours of rest, hoping to renew her vigil at midnight, when the carriages might begin to leave.

Unfortunately, a commotion woke her; shouts of some of the watchmen for the constabulary making it clear that something was horribly, terribly wrong. One of the young maids on night duty passed the news to Genevieve. "There's been an assassination attempt at the castle, and two guests have fallen from the balcony over the falls, Miss!"

She had known then, with a terrible pang of pain, that one of them _had_ to have been Holmes. Having played chess with him several times, Genevieve knew his style and reckless sense of sacrifice, his overriding compulsion for the grand gesture in the face of evil.

In the cold, foggy morning, a body had been recovered a few miles down along the banks of the Aar, a corpse much battered by the fall and drift along the icy river. By late afternoon, he'd had been identified at Professor James Moriarity, mathematics instructor and invited delegate to the Peace Summit. Of the other guest there was no sign, and no-one at the summit seemed to know who he had been. Rumors linked him with the would-be assassin, now poisoned and also in the Meiringen morgue.

Genevieve cried. She had buried her face in the pillows of the bed and sobbed long and hard, finally overcome by the fatigue, fear and pain of the last few weeks. When she was finally all cried out, she slept. Towards the end of that heavy sleep, she'd dreamt of Holmes, a nebulous haunting through which his voice drifted, calling to her.

The dream stayed with her when she'd woken the next morning, and Genevieve was determined to see for herself the site where Moriarity's body had been recovered, and search it for any signs of Holmes at all. Now, after packing some lunch and the map that Alphonse had given her, Genevieve stood at the curving bend of the Aar, looking up at the thunder of water spilling down the mountain under the castle.

She leaned on her walking stick, looking around the flattened ground, noting all the boot-prints and the wagon wheel ruts that rolled up to the main road. Yes, this was where Moriarity had been found and taken away; the marks were all fresh. Genevieve thought for a long moment, looking at the sluggish flow of the water. Moriarity had been only a bit taller than Holmes, but probably at least a stone or two heavier; it seemed possible that Holmes, being the lighter of the two would have drifted farther. With that thought in mind, Genevieve began walking along the river, glad of her sturdy boots.

The Aar wasn't very swift, and she studied the thin grasses along its banks, aware that the river was fairly shallow along this side. After about a mile, she reached a bend that held a pebbly beach of sorts, curving in a sweep very close to the road. Shallow enough, in fact, to hold some debris. Genevieve quickened her pace as she spotted something snagged on one of the larger rocks. A prod of her walking stick brought up a wet, torn section of dark cloth, and as she held it up, Genevieve recognized it as a man's dress vest. It was torn, with part of the lining shredded, but what interested her more was the size, which was too small for a man like Moriarity.

In any case, Moriarity had been fully dressed when found, so this article of clothing _had_ to be from Holmes. Genevieve held it in her gloved hands for a moment, waiting for her heart to stop beating so rapidly. She carefully wrung the rag out and folded it before putting it in her pocket, then turned to look around at the ground.

The pebbles were disturbed, and part of that seemed to be a long trough leading up to the road. She stared, trying to picture what it might mean. Had Holmes crawled up from the water? Had he been dragged by someone? And if he'd reached the road . . . Genevieve turned and strode up the low slope, lifting her skirts and hurrying.

A bark stopped her. Startled, Genevieve froze as a veritable mountain of a dog padded up to her, his tail sweeping majestically in syncopation with his stride, his tongue hanging out. When he reached her, his tail increased speed. She reached out, tentatively, letting the huge animal sniff her hand.

"H-hello," she murmured softly, all too aware of the size of the canine. He was shaggy, a thick white coat with russet spots along his back, and dangling russet ears as well, but his eyes were guileless and friendly, and his tongue swiped over her fingers in a warm but rough greeting. "Well, at l-least you're friendly."

Genevieve liked dogs—_most_ dogs anyway. Several of her best customers had dogs, and she was fond of the bulldog, Gladstone, that Holmes shared with Watson. This gentle giant seemed to pick up on her sympathetic vibe, and beseeched her with his eyes to pet him, so she did.

Again, the tail increased speed. Genevieve couldn't help smiling; this was the first cheerful moment since hearing the news about Holmes. As she petted him, she looked around, trying to locate an owner, but no-one seemed to be about, so she climbed up to the road proper, and glanced down it in each direction.

There was nothing coming from the Meiringen end of the road, but from the other direction, a small cart pulled by a donkey came into view. The man holding the reins gave a whistle, and the dog's ears perked up. He gave a slightly regretful look to Genevieve and then dutifully bounded towards the cart, where the driver gave a noisy sigh.

He pulled up to a stop in front of Genevieve, and she noted with surprise that he was wearing the long grey robes of a holy order—Cistercian most likely. When he flipped his hood back, she saw his bowl-cut hair and nodded to herself: A brother then, from some monastery nearby no doubt. The brother greeted her in German, his accent Swiss. "Good morning, Fraulein! I hope Rolf here didn't frighten you. He's big, but all heart. Are you lost?"

"He's a good d-dog," she agreed, smiling at Rolf, who looked as if he wanted to return to her side for more petting. "He didn't frighten me at all. And n-no, I'm not lost, but I am looking for someone w-who is. A man, dark hair, dark eyes-" she fumbled in German.

"—A man you say?" the brother looked interested. "Here?"

"J-just about here," Genevieve nodded. "He f-fell in the river, and is probably injured. Have y-you seen him?"

The brother climbed off the wagon and came over to her, his expression both relieved and curious. "I think I _have_, Fraulein. Brother Martin and Rolf there found a poor soul along this road last night, nearly frozen to death. They brought him up to the Abbey, and I was going down to town just now to see if anyone was reported missing." He shook his head. "We don't generally go into Meiringen except once in a fortnight, so it must be the Lord's Providence to have met you. I'm Brother Hans, from Willigen Abbey."

"Genevieve St. J-James," she replied, shaking his hand. It was callused and warm from the reins, and she appreciated his kind smile.

"I think you'd better come to the Abbey with me and Rolf then to see if the man there is who you are seeking," Brother Hans told her. "If it is, then well and good, God be thanked. But if it is not, then we can give you a ride back to town before sunset."

"T-Thank you," Genevieve murmured, struck by this kindness.

Hans looked skyward and smiled. "And Him. Let me help you up. Mind the cheeses . . ."

As Genevieve climbed in, she noted the stacked rounds of cheese neatly packed in crates in the back of the cart. "Emmental?" she asked.

"Yes, some of the best in the country. Hold on," Brother Hans advised, and he tugged the left rein, making the donkey reluctantly turn. "No fussing, Jeanne! Home now—"

Rolf trotted alongside the wagon, easily able to keep pace with the old donkey, and Genevieve tightened her grip on the edge of the bench seat as the wagon headed up the road. After a mile, it forked, and a sign pointed the direction to Willigen Abbey. They took the right fork, and another two miles over a low rise brought the stone walls and bell tower into view. By now it was after noon, and faint sunshine made the Abbey look pleasant against the scattered snow and pockets of green on the hills. There were pastures with cows, and what looked to be a barn as well as a church and other buildings surrounded by granite walls.

They passed through an open gate, and there were a few surprised looks from various brothers as Genevieve and Hans rode in. A slight, thin priest with a silver beard came forward, absently petting Rolf as he looked up at the riders in the wagon and made the sign of the cross. "Peace be with you."

"And with you, Father," Brother Hans replied, crossing himself. "This is Miss St. James, who is looking for a missing man. I think it must be a blessing that I ran into her on the road to Meiringen, don't you?"

Father Peter nodded, his German accented with French intonations "The Lord guides us all as he sees fit. Miss St. James, you are welcome here. Come, have something hot to drink, and we will talk."

Genevieve forced herself to be patient, even though she wanted nothing more than to begin searching each building for Holmes, calling his name. Instead, she allowed herself to be helped down from the carriage and guided into an office where a fire blazed on a hearth. The warmth felt wonderful, and when Genevieve sat down, Rolf came to lay his head on her knee.

"He's taken a liking to you," Father Peter observed, moving to poke up the fire with a pair of tongs. "That's good to see. Rolf could use a friend, poor stray."

This startled Genevieve. "He's a s-stray?"

Father Peter nodded, taking a seat in a chair opposite her. "He was left near one of our pastures nearly a year ago, half-starved and wounded. Wolves must have attacked him at some point, but other than that we know nothing about him except he's a good dog. Alas, he's afraid of cattle, and has no aptitude for herding anything other than humans. In any case, we are not here to talk about this stray, but _another_ one, yes?"

"Yes," Genevieve replied, and added, "Do you speak F-French? Or English? My German isn't v-very good . . ."

"French then," Father Peter replied with a smile. "Tell me about this lost man."

Genevieve took a breath. "He's about f-five feet seven inches in stocking feet. His h-hair is dark brown as are his eyes. He h-has several scars as well. A long one a-across the right side of his ribs, a s-small one behind is r-right ear and a s-star-shaped one a-along his thigh. The l-left. Oh, and there are s-several old injection marks along his f-forearms," she sighed, hoping there were no fresh ones.

Father Peter nodded slowly, his gaze compassionate. "You certainly _know_ this man, that's very clear. What is not is what your relationship is. You haven't called him by name, or referred to him as a brother or husband, which is a curious thing, is it not?"

Genevieve felt heat on her face that had nothing to do with the fire; seeing it, Father Peter gave a small and knowing smile. "Ah. So it's like that?"

"It's n-not easy to explain," She murmured, her hands going up helplessly. "His work is . . . d-dangerous, and all-consuming, Father. He is l-like a knight of old, on a quest."

The priest's expression shifted to one more serious, and he sighed. "There is a difference, my child, between being like Cervantes's knight, or one under the guidance of the Almighty. I am not here to pass judgment; that is not my purpose in the question. I ask because the man's injuries are many, and he will need a great deal of care." When Genevieve drew a sharp breath, he held out a placating hand to her and continued. "He has many wounds that are days older than his tumble from the falls, and the ice of the river has brought him dangerously close to death. That being said, he seems to have a stubborn constitution, and will recover—physically-given time."

Genevieve caught the odd hesitation in the priest's tone and looked at him with trepidation. "Something is wrong."

The priest rose up, making both Genevieve and Rolf look up at him. "It . . . may pass. Come, I will take you to him."

Genevieve stood, and followed behind the priest as he made his way through a series of turns and hallways through the abbey that eventually ended at a wooden door with a red cross over the sill. He stood back and spoke again, softly. "Do you wish to see him alone?"

Not trusting her voice, Genevieve nodded.

Father Peter made a little hum of acknowledgement. "Very well. There are brothers in the next room, and I doubt I could pull Rolf from your side, so if you need any assistance, you have but to call." He murmured a blessing in Latin and opened, the door, ushering Genevieve and the Saint Bernard inside.

A thick wool carpet covered the floor and the only light came from a small window high above on the far wall. Genevieve looked at the bed and the figure sleeping on it; with a pulse of relief she felt her heart rise up in her chest, lighter than it had been in weeks. Quickly she darted forward and leaned over Holmes, drinking in the sight of him, noting the pallor of his complexion, the bruises on his stubbled chin and cheeks. A heavy crown of linen bandage encircled his temples, and from the bulk of him under the blanket, Genevieve deduced there were other injuries equally well-wrapped. She wanted to touch him, but feared waking him.

As if sensing her presence, Holmes opened his eyes and stared up at her. Even in the dim light, Genevieve noted how dark they were, and how wide. His warm breath, familiar and gentle brushed her cheek and she smiled.

"Do you have any idea how _l-long _I have been looking for you? H-how I've searched and w-waited and hunted?" she murmured to him in tender exasperation, feeling herself near tears again.

Holmes offered a faint and tired smile in return as he brought one hand up to rub his forehead. "No. Exactly who _are_ you?"


	5. Chapter 5

Genevieve stared at him, nonplussed. When she could speak again, she murmured in a flat tone, "Y-you don't remember me."

He struggled to sit up, accepting her help to do so, and gazed at her for a moment, his brows coming together. Lightly Holmes stroked a fingertip along her cheekbone. "I remember _about_ you," he offered in a raspy, tentative tone. "Books come to mind, as does rosewater. A disagreement over snoring."

"You _do_," Genevieve replied automatically, "even th-though you claim you do not, you're as loud as G-Gladstone sometimes."

Holmes' eyebrow went up. "The prime minister?"

"The b-bulldog," she replied, smiling despite herself. "We argued about it n-nearly a year ago."

"A bulldog," Holmes mused. "I seem to recall he died."

"Yes," Genevieve replied, eager to move on. "A few times. How are you feeling?"

"Battered," he told her, his gaze sweeping over her features. "I seem to have nearly drowned, and if I had not be rescued by a brother and a bear, I would probably be dead myself, or so the brothers here tell me."

The bear in question dropped his muzzle on the side of the bed and wagged his tail, shooting hopeful looks at both of them. Genevieve patted him absently. "I thought he had; I s-saw the marks on the ground where you'd b-been dragged up from the river."

"The river," Holmes echoed, rubbing his temple. "The Aar, flowing from Rhine of Germany through the floor of the Bern Plains of Switzerland. It stretches nearly two hundred miles from mouth to the North Sea, not that _any_ of that information is particularly relevant at the moment. Who am I?"

Genevieve took a breath, taking his hand in hers, feeling the calluses on his palm. "Your name is Sherlock Holmes."

He continued to stare at her blankly, and finally gave a sigh that rattled in his chest. "Again, vaguely familiar without the immediate pang of recognition that would reassure both of us. And you are?"

"G-Genevieve Simone St. James." She shifted her gaze, not wanting to let him see how she was beginning to tear up. Instead, she tossed her head back and blinked. "And in answer to your n-next question, we are . . . intimately acquainted, although with great d-discretion."

"Ah," Holmes replied, smiling for the first time. "Thank you. I instinctively knew that our connection must be an exceedingly close one, but the lack of wedding rings or traces of them on any of our fingers left me with few alternative relationships. So we are . . . lovers?"

"Yes," Genevieve replied, feeling a sense of hope. "Although that's not a priority at th-the moment. You need rest and care."

Holmes coughed, winced, and closed his eyes. "Agreed, albeit reluctantly. Will you . . . stay?"

Her smile was answer enough. Genevieve helped him lie down again and held his hand until he dropped off into a wheezy slumber. When she was sure Holmes was out, she rose and headed to the door. Rolf moved to follow her, and to her surprise, Genevieve realized it was now late afternoon as the sounds of soft chanting came from across the Abbey yard. Vespers was starting, she realized, and turned in time to see Brother Hans coming her way, his expression serene.

"Father Peter told me to watch for you," he murmured. "Asks that you wait in his study so he may speak to you. This way."

He led her back to the warm room and gave a nod before hurrying away, leaving Genevieve to her own tangled thoughts. She paced a bit, trying to relax, although her shoulders were tight, and her mind racing. Unfortunately the study was small, and she found herself walking in circles around the few pieces of furniture, her skirts sweeping as she strode.

Memory loss. It had to be related to the bandage around his head. He must have hit or bumped it and in that accident lost the pertinent bits of information about himself, Genevieve mused. It happened, she knew. Many a poor soul on the streets of London could attest to not remembering being knocked to the ground by a cart or hansom rushing by.

Still, it wasn't just the memory loss that worried her. His voice and cough told her that all that time in the river hadn't done Holmes any good either, and that a cold was settling into his lungs. He needed hot thyme tisanes and rest more than anything else, and Genevieve began to fret. Had they been in London, she would have all sorts of sources for what she needed, but here in Switzerland . . .

The study door opened and Father Peter came in, moving to the fireplace to warm his hands. Rolf snuffled the hem of his cassock in greeting, and the priest patted him before speaking. "Did he recognize you, Miss St. James?"

"No," Genevieve admitted, adding, "Although he says he _s-seems_ to know me. Certainly he's willing to accept w-what I've told him of us."

Father Peter nodded, and motioned for her to sit, taking a seat himself. "That in itself is a good thing. According to our barber Brother David, your friend has suffered a few severe blows to the head, not all of them from his tumble from the falls. As I said before, the injuries on this man vary in age, and that worries me because it suggests a violent life. Tell me, is this man a criminal?"

"No!" Genevieve blurted indignantly. "He is a c-consulting detective, and the n-nature of his work brings him into contact with the c-criminal element, but you may rest assured that Mr. H-Holmes is on the side of g-good."

Father Peter stared at her for a moment, and faintly, the corner of his mouth went up. "Your defense of him is commendable my child, and given what I know about the events at the Peace Summit, I am willing to give you both the benefit of the doubt, however, you cannot stay here for very long." He held up a hand to halt her automatic protest, adding, "I am not turning you out, Miss St. James; to send the two of you away now would be uncharitable and wrong, but we are simply not equipped to accommodate a female guest for any length of time. Whether you realize it or not, you are one of the worldly temptations that our Brothers here are seeking to rise above, and your presence here will be disruptive."

Genevieve pursed her lips for a second and spoke. "Mr. Holmes is too ill to travel, Father; what would you have us do?"

Father Peter nodded and reached to pat Rolf. "With care, I believe Mr. Holmes may be strong enough to travel in a week or so. We are prepared to care for him during that time, and help you find a way to take him home. Is that acceptable?"

She nodded, aware that it would have to be. "Yes. W-will you allow me to come each day to care for him, bring him medicine and clean clothes?"

Father Peter looked surprised. "Of course, my dear! Christian duty and simple compassion demand it, and the two of you will need time to get re-acquainted and make arrangements for the future. I can arrange to have Brother Hans bring you to and from the abbey each day, and certainly we can nurse him here as well. Has he any relatives?"

Genevieve nodded. "I will send a t-telegram today when I return to Meiringen." A thought struck her, and she leaned closer to the priest, adding, "Although I do not know the f-full story of what Mr. Holmes was doing, I fear he may still h-have enemies out there." The image of the gaunt-faced man came to mind and she continued, "Therefore I ask—I b-beg of you—please keep Mr. Holmes' presence here confidential!"

Father Peter pulled back, his expression growing concerned. "Keep this from the authorities? Is this matter . . . dangerous?"

Genevieve sighed. "I d-do not know for certain Father, but I believe p-prudence would be wise."

The priest looked troubled, but nodded. "Very well, although it goes against my better judgment. Brother Hans will take you back now, and he will meet you on the outskirts of town at eight o'clock tomorrow."

"Thank you, F-Father," Genevieve murmured gratefully.

-oo00oo-

When she returned the next morning, the sky was overcast, and threatening to snow; Genevieve shivered as the wagon rolled towards the abbey, clutching her basket of goods with one gloved hand and the bench seat with the other.

Holmes looked worse; his eyes were red and his cough rattled in his chest, but when he smiled at her, Genevieve relaxed a bit. She noted that the round little brother in the room was bringing in a bucket of hot water, and towels.

"I'll d-do that," she told him quietly.

The brother looked slightly startled. "Are you sure, Miss?"

"Yes," Genevieve nodded. "I know him b-better than you do."

Her quiet statement of fact impressed the portly brother, who set the bucket down and passed her the towels. He waved to the little table near the head of the bed where linens and a little pot of ointment sat. "As you say. I have a broth for him afterwards."

Genevieve waited until she was alone with Holmes to come sit at the side of his bed. "How are you f-feeling?"

"Annoyed," he told her, and sneezed. "Pain I can manage but boredom is unavoidable."

"I'm surprised they haven't d-dosed you with extract of poppies," Genevieve sighed. "All right, let's see h-how much damage there is."

Holmes looked wary, his gaze uncertain as Genevieve reached for the covers. "Genevieve-"

He said her name as he always did- with the French intonation-and that cheered her; Genevieve laid one hand over his, feeling the heat from it. "I told the t-truth; I've seen your body many times. Right n-now you need to be bathed and bandaged, and it can be d-done gently by me, or more roughly by s-someone else."

Her words had the desired effect, and Holmes reluctantly loosened his grip on the blankets, letting her peel them back to his waist in the dim light of the room. Genevieve drew in a sharp breath, unprepared for the mottled map of bruises that covered Holmes' lean torso. Here and there were stitches and several round contusions centered on his chest in a pattern that made her wince as she realized that fists, not rocks had made them.

"D-Dear God," she murmured, and then blinked rapidly, refusing to cry. Crying wouldn't help at the moment, and Genevieve turned instead to the bucket, fishing out one the bits of rag in it.

"I apologize for upsetting you," Holmes murmured quietly. "Had I the capacity to tend to myself-"

"Shhhhhh," she chided him, and gently began to wring out the rag. "Lie quietly and l-let me do this."

Genevieve carefully swabbed him down, taking her time as she lifted each of his arms in turn, running the cloth lightly over the wounded flesh, trying to be gentle as she did so. The lines of his body, so dear and familiar to her gave a bit of comfort, and Genevieve took her time, wishing she could wash away the pain both of them were feeling. Holmes tried not to flinch, and when she sponged his chest, he closed his eyes.

"Am I h-hurting you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Most assuredly not," came his slightly ragged reply. Genevieve wasn't certain, but accepted his words and continued, her touch lingering lightly as she cleaned the bruises that dappled his torso. When she reached his ribs, she stopped.

"You're t-ticklish," Genevieve murmured. "I don't want to make you writhe."

Holmes opened one eye and stared at her. "It's a little disconcerting that you know that."

"You know s-similar things about _me_," she pointed out with forced lightness. "They'll come b-back to you in time."

Holmes nodded very slowly. "I know a few things about you at the moment, but they are from observation rather than memory. For example, you hurried through your breakfast to get here today, as evidenced by the tiny smear of jam along your sleeve. Also, you have written several letters this morning, and brought a shank bone for the dog with you as well."

Genevieve arched an eyebrow at him, and Holmes managed a small quirk of a smile. "There is ink smudged along the edge of your hand, more than a single note's worth, which indicates you penned more than one. And the faint but lingering scent of sheep clinging to your shawl tells me that you carried meat in a basket on your lap. The Abbey has their own flock so I deduced that your provision was in fact a gift for Rolf, for whom you have developed a degree of affection."

Genevieve nodded. "All true; at least your p-powers of observation are intact." After a moment's hesitation, she reached for the blanket at his waist, and Holmes did as well, faint color coming to his pale cheeks.

For a moment they stared at each other in an impasse, neither saying anything. Genevieve leaned towards him and whispered sadly, "C-close your eyes. I cannot bear you not _remembering_ me when I am th-this close to you."

Holmes slowly did. He let his fingers open, and Genevieve drew back the covers, willing herself to move unhurriedly as she finished washing his thighs and legs. The linen drawers were enough for modesty's sake, but thin enough to reveal to her that while Holmes' mind might not remember her, his body certainly did. Despite all the scrapes, contusions and other batterings, the evidence of his arousal was unmistakable.

Genevieve took this as a good sign but said nothing, keeping her attentions strictly focused on care-giving. She lightly dried his body and pulled the blanket up once more, then perched herself on the edge of the bed, facing him. "H-head."

He pushed himself up to a sitting position with her help, not meeting Genevieve's eyes. She unrolled the bandage around his head, looking carefully at the scabbed lump over his right ear. Genevieve dabbed at it, then began to apply some of the ointment to the wound, breathing in the mingled scents of mint and sage that rose from the medicine. "It c-could have been much worse."

"Living is certainly the better option," Holmes agreed, and said no more as she finished re-wrapping his head.


	6. Chapter 6

Pain was something that Holmes was familiar with; almost an old friend given the number of times he'd been injured throughout his life. Some doses of it—bruises and concussions- were from easily recognized causes, like boxing, and others like bullet holes and stabbings were received in the pursuit of justice.

It was irritating therefore, not to know precisely how and why he was now on his back in a Swiss Abbey, talking aloud to a Saint Bernard.

"I accept that a certain amount of injury is from falling along the cascade of the Aar," he murmured to Rolf, who lay on the rug beside the bed, "but given the distance and speed, my survival of such an accident is miraculous. Do I believe in miracles? I do not," Holmes pointed a finger at the dog. "My faith lies in calculation of risk and result. If I felt going over the falls was worth the risk, then it stands to reason that I planned for the result. But how?"

At that moment the door opened, and Holmes watched as the barber, Brother David, and the young woman named Genevieve came in, holding clothing. Holmes noted it was tattered and while dry, clearly not fit for wear. He sat up, looking at it with concentration. "Formalwear. Mine?"

"What's l-left of it," Genevieve murmured. "Along with one shoe, and this." She held out a small device of polished brass, now slightly dented. "Is it a w-weapon?"

Her question made the brother pull back, but Holmes took it from her and gave it a cursory glance.

"I think not; there is a mouthpiece here, and a cartridge there, which means it was made to deliver something into a user's mouth—I suspect the contents to be either compressed air or oxygen," Holmes murmured, gently turning the apparatus over in his hands. It was definitely a little marvel of engineering. "A breathing device of some sort. That would certainly give an advantage to anyone under water."

"A breathing m-machine?"

Holmes hummed a little sound of affirmation and looked up at the brother. "This was with me?"

"Ja, clutched in your hand," he agreed. "It took us three people to tug it free from you, even battered as you were."

"It probably saved my life," Holmes admitted, and set it on the table. "Come, let me examine the clothing . . ." He held out his hands expectantly, and Genevieve gave them over, watching him.

He found he liked that; enjoyed knowing that her green eyes were studying him so closely. There was something in her quiet attention that he found comforting. Perhaps even more than comforting.

"Tailored, which means money," Holmes murmured, looking over the damaged clothing. "Excellent cut but not well-worn, meaning I didn't attend many formal functions. The wool is merino hogget, twice dyed, and the lining indicates that the suit was created in Savile Row. Davies and Son, London," Holmes nodded. "That, I remember."

Brother David looked a little surprised, and handed over the one boot without saying a word. Holmes took it and gave a brief smile. "Churches. Full-grain leather, with more wear than the suit. We do not have a magnifying glass, do we?"

He saw Genevieve shake her head, and sighed. "Very well. There seem to be fragments of railway coal and brick embedded in the soles. Had I a microscope and time, I am sure I would learn where I have been recently."

"All that from rags and a boot?" the brother wondered aloud.

Holmes pursed his lips. "It's not as much as it might be. I wore the boots for my trip, but not the suit, and my travels took me by rail. None of that is remarkable or unusual, although the brick is intriguing. It's not the usual red clay, but something rather more stone in nature."

"B-Be that as it may," Genevieve told him quietly, "I am more c-concerned with making sure you have s-something to wear on the way home."

Holmes nodded, aware of the need to move on from the hospitality of the Abbey. He fought a sneeze as Brother David gave him a mug of tea and left. Genevieve perched herself on the edge of the bed and studied him in a way he found slightly . . . arousing.

"How did y-you sleep?" she asked.

"Fitfully," he confessed. "Although I do remember a few things this morning. Watson, for instance. John Hamish Watson, surgeon, flat-mate and friend. Five nine, mustached, overly fond of cricket, cards, Mary Morstan and the bulldog whose name escapes me. I seem to recall he married Mary only recently."

When Genevieve nodded, Holmes felt a moment of satisfaction at her confirmation of these facts. She reached for the flannels on the bedside table and began to apply the mustard poultice on them, gesturing to Holmes to untie his nightshirt. He did, trying not to let his embarrassment bother him.

His body continued to respond to the touch of this woman, and he wished heartily he would either remember her and thus have permission to be so . . . enthusiastic, or that he had better control over his reactions and could suppress them.

She seemed unperturbed, and Holmes surmised that Genevieve either did not notice, or did not wish to humiliate him by commenting on it. He hoped it was the latter.

"As s-soon as I can procure suitable clothing f-for you we shall leave," Genevieve told him as she lightly pressed the plaster onto his chest. The fumes rose, making their eyes water for a moment as the pungency of the mustard made itself known. Holmes felt the heat sink into his skin, the warmth welcome.

"Agreed. Why isn't Watson here?" Holmes asked. "Surely he must have spent time looking for me."

"I'm sure h-he did," Genevieve replied slowly. "But given the ferocity of the w-waterfall and the drift of the c-current, he did not find you." She looked unhappy for a moment and leaned closer, her expression clouded. "I have b-been in contact with your brother. He has f-forbidden me to tell Watson that you are alive."

This news made him draw in a deep breath, and that in turn set off a coughing fit not helped by the mustard fumes. While Genevieve wiped his lips with a handkerchief, Holmes thought furiously about what she'd told him.

Brother. A tall and urbane figure came to mind at that. Deep-set eyes, insufferably superior attitude and quick intellect.

Holmes worked his jaw for a moment and spoke absently. "Mycroft. Infuriatingly correct as usual." When Genevieve looked at him in surprise, He added, "Watson is incapable of true guile; Mycroft is protecting him by keeping my survival a secret. That implies that the situation is still both dangerous and unresolved. This complicates matters."

"Your b-brother didn't seem surprised to hear from me," she told him, her mouth twisting in a wry smile.

"I'm certain he's known about my private affairs for a while," Holmes sighed. "Not that they are of any genuine interest to him. Mycroft deals in strategies, not data."

"So I am d-data?" she seemed miffed at the thought, and Holmes shook his head impatiently.

"Not to me, to him. You are far more than a collection of facts and numbers and I am grateful for your timely presence here. I assume I left you a missive forbidding you to come?"

At this, Genevieve arched an elegant eyebrow and Holmes felt a quick pulse of amusement at this confirmation of his suspicions.

"You did not f-forbid me to come," Genevieve murmured, patting the poultice on his wounded chest more firmly. "I chose n-not to accept that you were d-dead without the evidence of m-my own eyes. Clearly I made the correct d-decision."

The sting of the poultice helped to clear his sinuses, and Holmes blew his nose into the handkerchief before speaking. "Clearly. So you undertook an unescorted journey to the Continent to find me. This speaks volumes about the degree of intimacy between us."

This made her blush, Holmes noted, and the light rose flush along her cheekbones pleased him, but not her next words. "I w-was not unescorted; that would have r-raised questions. My friend Alphonse c-came with me."

"Alphonse?" it came out sharper than he intended, but Holmes blamed the mustard, which was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable.

"Alphonse Lavelle, p-proprietor of a bookstore in Calais," Genevieve told him as she draped a cool cloth across his forehead. "He was a p-perfect gentleman and helped me r-reach Switzerland."

Holmes fought the urge to grumble, and lost. "Altruistic of him. Is he . . . older?"

Genevieve paused and bent down to look into his eyes, her own holding a hint of something he couldn't identify. "Oh no—Alphonse is about m-my age. He insisted on c-coming with me and m-made for a delightful companion on the trip."

"Is that a fact?" Holmes replied shortly, wanting the conversation to end. "I trust you followed all appropriate_ proprieties_ then."

"How v-very sweet of you," she murmured dryly, "w-worrying about my reputation at th-this late date. I assure you Alphonse and I m-managed very well and had he not n-needed to return and attend to his injured s-sister he would be here t-too."

Holmes lay quiet for a while, aware that he had overstepped a line, but unsure which one and by how much. Genevieve took the time to unpack a razor and soap from her basket, whipping up a froth in one of the water bowls, using, Holmes noted, more ferocity than warranted. "I apologize for my lack of . . . tact," he finally offered. "Given how nebulous my memory is, I am unsure of the precise nature of our relationship, and the boundaries it entails."

She turned to look at him. Genevieve smiled, the corners of her lips turning up, soft dimples bracketing her mouth and in that forgiving smile, Holmes felt an urge to kiss her.

-oo00oo-

Genevieve was pleased that the tailor was a calm and cheerful man who seemed to understand the urgency of the job. He had studied the ruined formal dress and from it was able to alter a few ready-made garments to fit Holmes. A few trousers, some shirts, a coat and overcoat—all of it promised within the next two days without fail.

She paid him handsomely, relieved that Holmes would at the very least have something more to wear than robes. Boots were the next order of business, and Genevieve stepped out, concentrating on the directions given to her by the tailor. She shifted the tattered remains of Holmes' formalwear and as she turned to look up the street, she caught sight of an unwelcome face. The gaunt man had just stepped out of a store and caught sight of her.

The man who had met Moriarity at the train station.

Genevieve turned, but in her haste the red sash Holmes had worn fluttered to the ground, a gaudy flag against the melting snow and dark flagstones. She scooped it up, feeling her heartbeat accelerate, not daring to look over her shoulder as she abandoned thoughts of buying boots in favor of retreat. Moving as quickly as she could, Genevieve wove through the people moving along the sidewalks, and detoured through a small park, walking briskly until she reached her hotel. Once there, she shoved the rags at the concierge. "Please dispose of these immediately, merci."

"Of course Madam," the slightly startled man replied. "immediately."

Genevieve nodded, and moved to the restaurant, ordering tea and trying to relax. When the Darjeeling came, she sipped it.

Still, it was a long time until she felt calm again.


End file.
